Road-hogging bicyclists. The obnoxious cyclists who clog our roads and block tired motorists from getting home after a long day’s work drive me into next Tuesday. They shouldn’t cycle on any public roadway that doesn’t have designated bike lanes. If they rode in single file along the edge of the roadway, I wouldn’t have a problem; but instead they group together well inside the roadway. The one-dimensional-thinking cyclists claim that they’re eco-minded, but they’ll spend gallons of fossil fuel to get to a cycling route. The pale-in-face eco-nuts tend to be overly zealous vegans who unjustly condemn omnivores. These cyclists can’t just buy a $10,000 bicycle with 37 gears: They also have to buy all the accouterments, from their sleek suits and hickory-nut-shaped helmets to their pint-sized water bottles. I bet their cycling equipment is all they ever talk about.

Misleading labels on ketchup bottles. Ketchup has no nutritional value, despite the luscious vine-ripened tomatoes displayed on every bottle of ketchup in America. It has no vitamin A, vitamin C, iron, protein, or fiber. How do ketchup producers start with unadulterated tomatoes and end up with nothing but a red sauce containing high fructose corn syrup, sugar, salt, distilled vinegar, and “natural” flavors? But ketchup sure is good.

Little ketchup packets. The little ketchup packets offered at chain restaurants irritate me. The packets are difficult to open without squirting its contents everywhere except on the food. It generally takes ten packets to service one hamburger, and then you have to wash your hands and shirt before you can eat your hamburger.

Stepping on chewing gum. Stepping on a wad of used chewing gum inconsiderately dropped on a hot sidewalk in July is worse than stepping on dog poop. I wear deep-treaded boots, and getting the sticky gum off my boots is a major effort. To get the gum off, I freeze my boots and chisel the hardened gum out from between the boot treads with a flathead screwdriver.

Working on modern trucks and cars. Our trucks and cars used to be easy to work on, real easy. When I had my 1980 F-150 pickup truck, I did everything from changing the engine oil to bleeding the brakes. My 1980 straight-six pickup had so much open space under its hood that I could crawl under the hood and sit next to the engine. Nowadays, I’m hard-pressed to find the oil dipstick on my modern pickup.

My disappearing magazines. My sweet pointer Dixie eats magazines. Last month she ate two unread National Geographic magazines, still in their plastic shipping covers, for her main course and one unread Reader’s Digest magazine for dessert. I need to either start reading faster or go exclusively online. She also eats toilet-paper rolls like children eat Tootsie Rolls. Blaze, her stepsister, gets honorable mention for sticking to pelletized dog chow. How do dogs eat that stuff?

Used-car dealers. I became sick of them after I bought a beat-up 1964 Volkswagen Beetle for $450 in 1974. On the test drive, the dealer pointed to the newly installed brake pedal pad and said, “New brakes. See?” I bought the car, and sure enough, I paid my auto service center $400 for a complete brake job a week later.

Financial advisors. The smiling people who advertise they can “guarantee” a secure and lavish retirement for practically nothing are feeding you baloney. These scammers are worse than TV evangelists are, and their “free dinners” give me indigestion. Buying one of their rip-off annuities makes about as much sense as cutting off my right arm. I have my own carefully thought-out retirement plan, so the retirement-planning sharks should go fishing elsewhere.

Idiots driving with their blinding high beams continuously turned on. In high-school driver’s education, I learned to turn off the high beams when approaching other drivers head on after dark. Don’t they still teach that? For that matter, does anybody take driver’s education anymore? Don’t flash your high beams at these mentally numb drivers as a warning. You’ll only create a doubly dangerous situation involving two blind drivers.

Stuck dental floss. In addition to brushing my teeth daily, I floss my teeth every morning—sometimes twice a day. I began such dental hygiene diligence after paying my dentist $6000 for six crowns. Occasionally a string of floss hangs up between two teeth. As I desperately pull on the floss to extract it wholly from my mouth, the floss usually tears in half. One piece comes out while the other stays stuck. For the rest of the day, I’m tonguing the stuck floss, unless I get lucky. A stuck piece of used floss can be frustrating.

Well, it’s Sunday night; and with that last peeve vented, I’m retiring to bed—without any floss stuck between my teeth.

Sweet dreams y’all.